


Various Storms and Saints

by melonbug



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Guns, KGB, M/M, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Spies, Violence, references and depictions of torture, spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 18:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13840185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbug/pseuds/melonbug
Summary: Five hours. In five hours Yuuri would be on a proper assignment again, in the miserable cold hell of Russia. Rescuing a defector who would probably be better off dead by the time they reached him.He was going to die in Russia, he just knew it.





	Various Storms and Saints

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, here is a fic that has been sitting in my drafts forever that I really want to continue. Enjoy!

Yuuri was in London when he got the call, negotiating a contract with MI6, an  _ important _ contract, so when he finally apologized to the Director in Chief, who was surprisingly understanding, and excused himself (after the fifth time his phone had vibrated heavily in his pocket) he was surprised to hear Celestino on the other end of the line.

“The world had better be ending,” he said as he answered, stepping around a corner and into a deserted hallway. Or as deserted as any place could be in the MI6 headquarters. Even here everything was likely bugged to the gills. “You  _ know _ how important this contract is for us.”

Celestino clicked his tongue and Yuuri could almost see him on the other end of the line: Comfortable at their own headquarters, likely half reclined in his chair at his desk, spinning a pen around in his fingers. Not jetlagged and tired and still hurting from his last assignment, as Yuuri was, with two broken ribs that still pained him with every deep breath he took. “This is important,” Celestino said and he’d known Celestino for a long time, long enough to know his tone. Maybe the world  _ was _ ending, or maybe Minako had made the man call him to remind him to call his mother. Either would have struck the fear of God into Celestino and he definitely sounded serious. “The CIA wants us for a job. It’s time sensitive.”

Oh. Well that certainly wasn’t all that important. “Was there not anyone else—”

“It’s in Russia,” Celestino explained and Yuuri almost hung up on him. Russia, of all places.  _ Russia _ . And it would be crawling with KGB and Bratva and rogue agents. Rogue agents  _ loved  _ Russia and the KGB loved them and their secrets and their sudden lack of alliances. It was a match made in heaven and Yuuri despised Russia. On top of everything else it would be cold. “You’re the closest agent we have, Yuuri. And need I remind you this is extremely  _ time sensitive _ ?”

Yuuri sighed and it set off a flutter of pain through his side. He ignored it. “I’m listening.”

“It’s extraction,” Celestino explained. “And that’s right up your alley. The CIA have a man on the inside there. You’re going to meet up with him and you two will coordinate the extraction from there.”

“Who’re we extracting?”

It was Celestino’s turn for hesitation and Yuuri didn’t miss it. “You’ve heard of Grey December?” Gray December was the title given to Russia’s top KGB agents, passed along through the years to a long list of frightening individuals. Other agents whispered the name in fear and trepidation, and no one really knew  _ who _ the current Grey December even was. But Yuuri had very much heard of him 

“You’re joking,” Yuuri whispered, grip tightening on his phone. “You’re crazy, this is crazy—”

Celestino ignored him and continued. “He’s been informing for the CIA for the last year and they’ve guaranteed him a safe defection in return.” Yuuri pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, sighing again. A Grey December, informing for the CIA. It didn’t get better than that. “Except he was caught late last week, in the middle of transmitting Russian secrets.”

Yuuri swore in Japanese. “Last  _ week _ ? And he’s not dead already?”

“Mm, no,” Celestino responded. “Last word we had from the inside was that they’ve got him somewhere remote, working him over for information.” And they both knew what that meant. Yuuri was only all the more surprised he wasn’t dead already. Most people didn’t survive getting ‘worked over’ by the KGB for the better part of a week. “But anyway, your flight leaves in, uhhh, a little over an hour. You should be in Moscow before nightfall.”

He groaned. “That’s hardly enough time to get through security.”

And Yuuri could just see Celestino at his desk, shrugging, he could practically  _ hear  _ the shrug in his voice. “It’ll be plenty of time. And we need you on the ground inside of five hours.” Five hours. In five hours he’d be on a proper assignment again, in the miserable cold hell of Russia. Rescuing a defector who would probably be better off dead by the time they reached him. “You’ll be met at the airport by Georgi Papovich.”

“The CIA’s man?”

“No, Bratva,” and Yuuri interrupted him with a choked noise. “Nephew to the head of the Bratva, actually. They owe the CIA a favor and they have a long running feud with the KGB, so they’re lending us  _ one _ man to help and that’s him. I’ll send you a picture. He’ll take you to the inside man and he’ll have your dossier waiting. But you’re the lead on this, Yuuri. This is off the books, not CIA approved. Not technically.”

He couldn’t wait.

But in all honesty it sounded more exciting than what he had been doing. Which reminded him— “And what about what I was in the middle of? It really is important we get this contract—”

“Oh,” Celestino said, as if he had already forgotten about it. Maybe he had. “They’re approving our contract as we speak. CIA just got off the phone with them, they’ve put in a good word for us. And by now they should be aware of why we’re pulling you away suddenly. They’ll be getting you to the airport.”

“Oh,” Yuuri said, startled.

“Oh, and Yuuri?”

“Hmm?”

“Brush up on your Russian on the flight. And bring a jacket, it’s negative six there right now.”

Yuuri hated Russia.

—

Georgi Papovich was not at all what he expected. Yuuri had assumed, perhaps, that the picture Celestino had sent him was an ill representation of the man and that it didn’t do him justice but it had been spot on. He was lean and muscular but he was also pretty, carefully groomed, his suit well manicured. It was not the typical image of a member of the Bratva and it made Yuuri nervous. “You are Yuzuru, yes?” he asked, and his English was there but weak, accented heavily. Yuuri nodded, because that was the name on the passport he had used, of the many different ones he had.

He’d had just enough time in the airport bathroom back in London to comb back his hair and ditch his glasses. They had been fakes and he only ever wore them when he needed to look unassuming and nonthreatening. It had been a perfect look for contract negotiations with MI6, but hardly what he needed now. Now he needed to look calm and collected, and inside he was. He’d spent years training away the nerves.

They were there, of course, but they were a non issue. The most anxious part of any assignment for him was just making it through security at the damn airport.

Georgi considered him for a long moment, sizing him up. “You are not what I expected,” he told him, shoving his hands into his pockets. Yuuri snorted, hefting his carry on higher onto his shoulder. “ _ Do you even speak Russian _ ?” he asked, sliding into it from English so smoothly Yuuri almost didn’t notice the change.

“ _ I do speak Russian _ ,” he told him as they finally walked out, and outside it was snowing and cold and damp. Of course. It was the middle of December. Yuuri idly wondered if he would make it home for Christmas this year or if he’d end up dead in the ninth circle of Hell. Which was Russia.

Georgi laughed though, the lines of his face relaxing. He looked less like a member of the Bratva by the moment. “ _ Not well _ ,” he responded, no doubt noting the roughness of Yuuri’s Russian, the American accent within it that he hadn’t quite been able to correct. He spoke Russian well enough but his grammar was rough, his pronunciation hardly better. He’d never had cause to use it, so far, though Minako had insisted they all learn it, had enforced classes on it until they could all pass in the field. He shuddered at the memory. Minako was a hardass, especially when it came to training, but the end result was almost always worth it. He spoke Russian well enough to extract a member of the KGB from the middle of the country. So there was that, at least.

So maybe his knowing Russian was more of a curse.

Georgi’s car, when they reached it, was the kind of expensive sports car that Yuuri was certain stuck out as much as he did as a member of the Bratva. “Nice, yes?” Georgi said with a grin as Yuuri slipped inside and he nodded. It was nice, yes, and it was loud and it was fast, sluicing through the slush on the roads, drifting in the turns. It handled well beneath Georgi’s hands, though, and he drove it like a pro, and Yuuri was hardly fazed by the recklessness of it all. At least they weren’t being chased by a barrage of gunfire, so it was almost nice, for a change.

The hotel he brought him to was huge, taking up the entirety of a city block, large and sprawling and nice. A remnant of the soviet era, of big, self contained city blocks. They checked in under Georgi’s name and Yuuri wasn’t given so much as a passing glance. Bratva owned hotel, no doubt.

The CIA agent was waiting inside the room Georgi took him to, and he was standing by the bed and the bed was covered in weapons.

“You’re the agent from the ICA?” he asked and Yuuri nodded, dropping his bag on the floor. There was nothing much in it. One could hardly carry weapons through airport security, but there a better pair of boots there, and warmer clothes, more suitable for a mission. Infiltration, he had been told. Extraction. But the weapons laid out across the bed made it seem more as if they were taking down a fortress. He said as much out loud and the man shrugged. It was off putting, how calm and aloof he was.

“A fortress, yes,” he said, in the middle of strapping himself into what could only be a bulletproof vest. He finished and turned, tossing one in Yuuri’s direction. He caught it and looked it over, frowning.  It was a lightweight one, the kind that would maybe stand up to a barrage of bullets if he maybe prayed hard enough. If they were scattered, from a distance, low caliber.

“Be quick,” the man ordered. “We don’t have a lot of time.” He looked as serious as he sounded: a defined jaw line, an undercut, brown hair spilling messy across the top of his head, a frown creased into his face. “The facility we’re heading to is an hour north of here, half an hour if we drive fast.” His English was flawless, not even the faintest hint of Russian accent in it.

Yuuri shrugged off his jacket and his shirt and began strapping into it, his broken ribs protesting every movement. And then he knelt to fish through his dropped carry on, rifling through it. Georgi stood by nonchalantly, not doing much of anything but watching. Yuuri shot him a curious look as he pulled dark clothes from the bag and stood. Georgi lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing his own vest. Okay, so he was prepared already.

“Well I just went through airport security,” he retorted, slipping a sweater on over this shirt, to better hide the obvious bulk of the bulletproof vest. And then around that went a holster, strapped high across his chest so he could tuck guns against his sides. And then another, around his leg, and another around his waist.

And then he set about the guns, running his fingers across them as he decided. “My name is Otabek, by the way,” the CIA agent told him suddenly and Yuuri glanced over at him. He was busy strapping into his own weapons, the epitome of calm and careful and calculated. It was a mirror to Georgi, who leaned against the wall by the door, impatient and tapping his foot.

Yuuri ignored him. “What’s the plan?” he asked, loading a pistol and slipping it into holster number one. “I wasn’t given a lot of information.”

Otabek paused, snatching up a thin file on the table beside the bed and handing it over. Then he shot Georgi a particular look and the man sighed, holding his hands up. “ _ I get it, I’ll leave, _ ” he murmured, swinging open the door. “ _ Spy nonsense _ ,” Yuuri heard him say just before the door slammed closed behind him, heavy.

“This is need to know,” Otabek explained as Yuuri finally opened the file. “And he knows what he needs to know.” And Yuuri more than understand that much. He’d been an agent for a long time. 

The first page was paper clipped with a picture of a man with silver hair that spilled about him, a sharp face and a faint smile that was almost alarming. His eyes were the blue of an overcast sky and he was  _ familiar _ . “This is Grey December?” Yuuri asked, lifting the image and running his eyes over the information beneath it. Where had he seen the man before?

“His name is Victor Nikiforov,” Otabek told him, dropping down on the bed and lifting his pants leg. He was slipping blades into a holster just above his boot, Yuuri realized. “They’ve had him five days, so far, and he’s being kept north of here, as I said before. Somewhere remote, out of the way.”

Yuuri nodded, flipping past the first page. There was a blueprint of the building: an open floor plan, with an outer catwalk looking down onto it, hallways and rooms along the outer edges, the entire thing vaguely panopticon in design, very industrial looking— “Refurbished powerplant,” Otabek grunted out, and Yuuri scanned the image again, committing it to memory. A small star on one room, in the back, far right corner, notated where they would find Nikiforov. Of course it was one of the furthest points from the front entrance.

“How are you getting us in?” Yuuri asked, running ideas through his head. He flipped the page and beneath it was more information: maps of the city, maps of St. Petersburg, the address for a rendezvous point.

Otabek shrugged. “I have a good reputation at this facility. They won’t so much as frisk you if I’m there with you.” Well that was good to know. So they didn’t have to go in guns ablazing. “The Bratva and the KGB, they have a rocky relationship. On again, off again. Right now they’re on again, and Georgi wants his pound of flesh from Nikiforov, or so I will tell them. You’re with him. They won’t ask questions, as I said.” Yuuri waited for the other shoe to drop. It wouldn’t all be so easy, if the duffel bag of weapons was any indication. “Getting in is easy, but getting out— We will have to shoot our way out, Nikiforov in tow.” And that, of course, explained the weapons. “Georgi will be parting ways from us then, we will be on our own from there. And once we have Nikiforov we’re to take him out of the country through the Russian-Finnish border. One of their guys will be waiting for us in St. Petersburg to get us there and through to the other side,” Otabek explained. He was efficient in his words, wasted no time, and continued to prepare even as he spoke. “The border is highly secure, we will not make it out without him. He will be meeting us at the rendezvous point in six days.”

Six days. That was how much time they had to hide out with what would soon be  _ two _ former members of the KGB who were to be on the run. “What are our odds?” Yuuri asked as Otabek pressed keys into his hands. The one for the rendezvous point, a safehouse as described in the folder. “How many men are at this facility?”

Otabek made a passive noise, shrugging. “Maybe a hundred, maybe more, maybe less. Hard to say this time of day. It will be dark before we get there.” He picked up the duffel bag and slung it over one shoulder. It was noticeably heavy but he kept it steady. “Most of them are soldiers, we shouldn’t be too worried. The place is used for training and drills.”

Yuuri drew in a sharp breath, doing the math. Three against a hundred, maybe more, maybe less. Except, not three, really, more like— “What about Gray December?” he asked suddenly, drawing Otabek to a stop. “We have to get out with him in tow. Will he manage, on his own? Will we need to—”

Otabek nodded. “If you’re asking if he will be able to walk out, then yes. We won’t need to carry him. He’ll hardly be dead weight.”

“Are you certain?” It worried Yuuri, suddenly. He hardly wanted to have to fight his way out of a heavily armed building with someone slung over his shoulder. He had done it before, but he needed to be prepared, at the very least. Or not. He was an agent. There was never enough preparation or information for any of the assignments they went on. But he’d be damned if misinformation got him killed. “They’ve been working him over for five days. How can you be certain?”

Otabek turned and met his eyes, and it was the most real contact they had had since Yuuri had first stepped into the room. Where Yuuri felt nervous, healthily nervous, Otabek was cold steel. But he looked sad, as well, and Yuuri knew he could only hide so much behind his cool facade. “I’m certain because I’m the one who’s been working him over,” he said, and Yuuri’s blood ran cold. Oh. That was what Otabek did with the KGB. He was an interrogator.

“Oh.”

—

Yuuri rode with Georgi, who was surprisingly talkative as they cut their way through the slush on the road, driving too fast. He had been instructed to keep up with Otabek, who rode in a more reasonable vehicle, a sleek SUV that Yuuri was hardly surprised to see in use by KGB agents. It was perfect for the weather they were in, compared to Georgi’s sportscar.

Georgi didn’t seem to care about any of it. “I volunteer for this,” he told Yuuri in stuttered English. “To stick it to KGB assholes.” He was grinning. “KGB asshole took my girlfriend.”

Yuuri frowned. “Do you think he’ll be there?” Yuuri asked, eyes on the road because Georgi’s weren’t, really. “The one who stole your girlfriend?” Steal seemed the wrong word there. If she left him for someone else it could hardly be called stealing. Semantics hardly seemed to matter, though. Too much else was lost in translation, anyway.

Georgi laughed, but he looked sad. “I love her, you know?” he said. He seemed determined to speak in English. “But she wanted, how do you say, nicer model? Bratva is nice, yes, but Bratva is no KGB,” he spit out, angry. “But he will not be there, no. But will be worth it. All KGB assholes the same, you know? No difference, really.”

Yuuri shrugged because he couldn’t really agree or disagree. He’d had a few run ins with KGB but not enough to make a solid comparison. But he thought of his own agency and his fellow agents. Phichit and Emil and Minako and Celestino. Michele and Sara. They were all distinctive enough.

“Anyway,” Georgi continued. “Viktor, he is alright.”

Yuuri frowned. “You know him?” he asked, startled.

Georgi laughed. “ _ Yes _ ,” he said. “ _ Viktor is a great guy. I’ve met him many times. I’m sad he’s been captured _ .” He shuddered and Yuuri knew why. He thought of the look Otabek had given him when he’d told him he’d been the one working Gray December over.

The arrived slightly after Otabek and Georgi pulled into a casual wave from the man, who stood speaking to the two guards stationed out front. Yuuri was nerves as they stepped out, hand curled just so to quickly reach for his gun, if he should need it. He didn’t end up needing it though because, after a moment, one of the guards gave Otabek a slap on the back, laughing, and they were waved inside.

Yuuri relaxed a good bit, eyes sweeping across the hallway they had stepped into. To their left was the wide doorway leading out into the open floor, and ahead they would reach the stairwell, taking them up three floors to where Viktor was being held. And the place was quiet in the way places were at night, the peripheral noise minor and static. There were certainly not a lot of people here, not awake, at least. Maybe that would help them.

Georgi parted ways with them as they hit floor two and then they encountered their first group of people since stepping inside: a feminine looking man with tousled blonde hair, with a redheaded woman beside him. The man waved down Otabek, and Yuuri saw his eyes go wide. Panic, he was panicking and Yuuri took a careful breath, watching them.

“ _ Ota _ ,” the man greeted and he was grinning, far more excited to see Otabek than Otabek seemed to be to see  _ him _ . The woman with him gave them both a look and continued on, smirking. Yuuri watched her go but she paid him no mind outside of a brief, curious glance. And Otabek whispered harshly to the man, catching his wrist and pulling him close.

“ _ You weren’t supposed to be here tonight, _ ” he hissed and the man looked annoyed.

“ _ Of course I’m here. I came to see _ —” Otabek didn’t let him finish.

“ _ Leave, Yuri, _ ” he whispered and Yuuri stepped away from them, startled to hear his own name. It was different, though, spoken with the Russian dialect that belonged to it, but either way Yuuri was frazzled, standing as he was in the open, the agent entrusted with his safety now busy having a secretive, whispered conversation with an unknown entity. “ _ Please, go home _ .”

Yuri, the blonde man, narrowed his eyes at him and snatched his hand away, angry. “ _ Is this about  _ Viktor _ , _ ” he spit out, and Otabek seemed visibly shaken.  _ “I know I’m not allowed to see him, but _ —” Otabek sighed and shook his head before casting a glance Yuuri’s way. His voice dropped further as he continued and Yuuri could no longer make out what was being said but, after a moment, the blond man stalked off, angry.

“ _ What’s going on? _ ” Yuuri asked when they were all clear. He was the one annoyed, now. His safety was in jeopardy and Otabek had just had a hushhush conversation that pointedly excluded him. He was screwing around, the panic clear on his face, now, and Yuuri was on edge already. His nerves were in tangles.

“ _ It’s nothing _ ,” he said, leading the way, hiking the duffel bag higher onto his shoulder. “ _ We’re going to continue as planned _ .”

Yuuri caught him by the arm, spinning him around to face him. They were still alone on the hallway, but Yuuri suspected the rooms around them may not have been as empty. He kept his voice to an angry whisper. “ _ I need to know what’s going on, _ ” he said, grip tight on the other man's arm and he avoided eye contact, which only made Yuuri all the angrier. It wasn’t like him and even then it wasn’t him, it was an act. He acted the way the situation called for, and this one called for understandable anger. “ _ Who was that? _ ”

Otabek met his eyes, finally, angry. “ _ He’s the next Gray December _ ,” he said at last, and that was all he said before he pulled himself away from Yuuri. “ _ We continue as planned. He hasn’t compromised us _ .”

Yuuri took a deep breath, keeping his hand steady and finally followed after him. He was going to die in Russia, he just knew it.


End file.
